


Surfer Girl

by rozurashii



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU/AR, M/M, Other, Sam likes surfing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-14
Updated: 2010-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-13 05:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rozurashii/pseuds/rozurashii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Jess's death, Sam continues going to school, only occasionally helping Dean with hunts. When Castiel shows up unannounced, he expects his holiday weekend to be ruined but instead makes a new friend out of an old annoyance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surfer Girl

**Author's Note:**

> Edited by the lovely Helena.

Castiel is sitting on the railing, looking out over the cliff and watching the other surfers, when Sam spots him. There is a moment where he wonders if he can make it to his truck without diverting Castiel's attention away from the waves. Chances are his freaky angel ESP has already busted Sam but he's playing it casual instead of getting up in Sam's business. Dean must be finally wearing the guy down.

Sam shifts the surfboard under his arm and crosses the street quickly. He's hungry, exhausted, and wet. Castiel can come to him. He fishes his keys out to unlock the camper shell and pops the tailgate, dropping onto it with a groan of relief. He shouldn't have surfed so many sets but it's a rare long weekend and graduation is so close he can nearly taste it. He'd planned on an epic weekend of surf and more surf and maybe some beer if he was feeling feisty but the sight of Castiel killed that boner instantly. Castiel is still staring out at the ocean but that's not anything to count on, long term.

There is a chilly breeze rustling the cypress trees and Sam can feel the bite of it even through neoprene. He tugs the wetsuit zipper down and shoves it to his waist. The wind is even worse against his damp skin. He digs through his duffle and shrugs on a hoodie. The relief is instant, even if he's sandwiched between two extremes; warm on top and frigid on the bottom. There is a shower and an endless cascade of hot water waiting for him once he gets back to his hotel but for now, Santa Cruz is fucking cold in the spring sunshine and he can't find his pants.

He doesn't notice that Castiel has finally crossed the street until he steps back, sweat pants in hand, and they collide. Sam is caught effortlessly. Before he trips or can even react to stumbling, he's settled back on his feet.

"Hello, Sam," Castiel says, right up against the back of Sam's neck.

"Cas," Sam replies. He likes to think he pulls off nonchalant, even though he can feel the tension shiver up his spine every second that Castiel doesn't move away. "Do we need to have that talk about personal boundaries again?"

"My apologies." Castiel doesn't sound sorry in the least but he's at least making an effort to fake it.

Sam wonders what heaven must be like if getting all up in someone's business is no big thing. He doesn't like being this close to anyone, much less his big brother's angel pal. Even when he backs off, Castiel doesn't move as far away as any normal person would. That much, Sam can handle. They do this every single time. He shoves the rest of his wetsuit off, settling on the tailgate to wriggle it all the way down his legs.

"I can't go hunting this weekend," Sam says, giving passers-by a brief show while tugging on his pants. He's dressed and finally warm again. He shoves his feet into flip-flops, ignoring the sand and dirt between his toes. "I have plans."

In some ways, Castiel is easier to deal with than Dean. Dean would want to know what plans and why Sam can't break them. He would push until he managed to wear Sam down and talk him into joining the hunt. It's just as well that Dean doesn't appear to be around.

"We are not needed to go hunting," Castiel says slowly.

There is an undercurrent to his words that takes Sam a moment to work out. He pauses, about to towel dry his hair. "Tell me you didn't let Dean go on a hunt by himself," he growls. They've had this conversation, and variations on it, a number of times. The things Dean says he needs versus the things he actually needs are not always nuances that Castiel can parse with the same ease as Sam.

"I did not let Dean go on a hunt by himself," Castiel repeats faithfully. At Sam's glare, he adds sulkily, "Dean has made a new friend for hunting."

Sam heaves a sigh. He really doesn't want to go haring across the country in search of Dean 'my judgment is questionable on good days' Winchester. "How big were her breasts?" he asks, resigned to the fact that his brother is a walking boner.

Castiel shakes his head, clearly wishing it had been breasts that lured Dean away. "He conned a trickster into offering assistance with the horsemen. They would not permit me to join them," Castiel says. He's very clearly having a sulk over it.

Sam is torn between laughing at Castiel and demanding that they go find Dean immediately. Tricksters are nothing to fuck around with. They're capricious swindlers who, in Sam's experience, are not very compassionate towards humans.

"In fairness," Castiel admits grudgingly, "Gabriel is not typical of tricksters and Dean did double dare him."

"And they both have the mentality of twelve year olds?" Sam says. It's not even a question really. He remembers how Dean had been with the last trickster they met. A little too gung-ho, for one. He'd been genuinely bothered that they couldn't talk the thing into eliminating the mortality flaw in its pranks. So, it's not as much of a surprise as it could be that Dean would find another trickster and actually make a deal with it.

Castiel shrugs awkwardly. Just as he does everything awkwardly. It's a miracle that more people don't notice. Of course, most people are never going to have the same kind of Castiel experience that the Winchesters have. Sam has been very disillusioned by the existence of angels. Castiel is merely the first in a long string of disappointments.

He finishes repacking his gear and lays his wetsuit out in the truck bed so that it will dry and not mildew. The board gets strapped to the rack on the camper shell and Sam is ready to hit the road again. Or at least drive down the street back to his hotel.

Castiel stands there forlornly, hands in his pockets, and his one-hundred yard stare affixed to Sam's every movement. It's depressingly transparent, standing on the sidelines like a child waiting to be invited to play. Sam argues with himself for a long, silent moment.

"Are you coming or what?" Sam says as he opens the door to the truck; kindness getting the better of him.

The change in Castiel's demeanor is like sunrise bursting across his face. It's like nothing good has ever happened to him before this moment. Sam starts the engine and waits for Castiel to slip into the passenger's seat. He shifts into gear as soon as Castiel fastens his seatbelt and they pull out of the lot.

It's something of a jog to get back around the block. Sam had forgotten that 41st goes one way the wrong way and they have to drive all the way up to Portola to make the circuit properly. He would have been better off leaving the truck at the hotel but he hadn't felt like hiking along the road that morning to get to where the good surf was.

The radio is on, but it's a hum beneath the stifling silence in the cab. The windows are down and the breeze that rustles Sam's hair also keeps him from speaking. They've never been comfortable with one another, he and Castiel. Even with the gratitude that Sam knows he and Dean owe the angel, he has never been able to completely wipe out the hurt and frustration of their first meeting. This is the only time they've ever spent together without Dean as a mediating influence.

Sam pulls into the empty lot outside his hotel room. The hotel is one of those quaint little designer places and as far as he can tell, Sam is the only guest. It's not really prime tourist season. Jess had found it, originally, and masochistic nostalgia and stubbornness keep Sam returning even though it's on the outside of his budget. He won't stay in their room, though. He has that much self-respect, at least.

He pulls the surfboard off its rack and into the room but leaves the rest of his gear in the truck. There's nothing in there that can't wait until later. He's hungry -- and fortunately there is still food in the mini-fridge from the previous night -- but cleanliness and warmth are his greater priority. He's sticky and he can feel little bits of sand as they dry and slough off to haunt his clothes.

Castiel trails behind Sam like the abandoned puppy that he is. He says nothing as he watches Sam putter around the room. He doesn't even take off his jacket.

"Make yourself comfortable, I guess," Sam says. "I'm going to shower. You can watch TV or whatever."

Castiel is still standing silently in the middle of the room when Sam closes the bathroom door behind himself. The shower stall is too short for Sam to appreciate entirely, but the water is hot and refreshing after his morning in the Pacific. He stands in the spray for a long time before reaching for the soap.

When he exits the bathroom in a cloud of steam, Sam finds that Castiel has, in fact, done as suggested. He loosened up enough to lay his coat over the desk chair and is sitting rigidly on the end of the bed with his feet dangling just off the floor. On the television, a kitchen is being demolished by an enthusiastic couple with a pry bar and sledge hammer.

Sam finds himself a clean t-shirt to go with his sweats. It's still early, barely eleven AM, but he's already accomplished the sum total of his plans for the day. He retrieves his leftovers -- cold falafel and hummus from the night before -- from the fridge and leans against the headboard to eat.

"Relax a little, Cas," Sam suggests. "It won't kill you."

"I did not wish to presume," Castiel says. There is a thud as his shoes hit the floor and Castiel slides up the bed until he is reclining next to Sam.

It's all Sam can do not to fucking beam at him and pinch his little cheeks. The guy is so painfully earnest about everything he does. He might be an annoying asshole, but he's so staid about it, you can almost let it slide. Almost.

Sam has a fleeting thought to call Dean and bitch him out for leaving Castiel to his own devices. The urge passes with the realization that his phone is all the way on the other side of the room. He's just not that motivated to move. The bed is soft and the hum of the TV lulls him into lassitude. Even Castiel by his side is somehow relaxing. He's warm and quiet. His unnerving gaze is directed, for once, at something other than Sam.

They watch the television in silence, broken only by the pleased noises that Sam makes while eating. Castiel seems enthralled by the renovation on the television. When Sam glances to the side, Castiel's brows are furrowed with something that may be annoyance or may be concentration. Sam smothers a smile in the last of his lunch before putting it aside and settling back against the pillows.

The careful distance that usually separates them has shrunk to nearly nothing. Sam can feel that tension like a tangible force, like opposite polarities being held against one another. Castiel's hand brushes his for a moment and then pulls away. He can't tell if it was on purpose or not but either way it causes his skin to prickle and the hairs on his arm stand on end.

The second time it happens, Sam tenses. The shiver creeps up his legs to his spine and can't be entirely suppressed no matter how he tries to hold still. Castiel shifts and Sam can't help looking over. Without the armor of his trench coat and blazer, Castiel seems like a normal guy. He's a little rough around the edges with that permanent haze of stubble but he's pretty enough that this isn't the first time Sam's looked. His gaze is fixed in its usual creeper stare but also on Sam's mouth. He licks his lips reflexively and watches as Castiel's mouth parts, just barely.

"I do not understand," Castiel says with a growl of frustration, "why this flesh craves your attention. Dean does not have this affect on me."

His fingers have trapped Sam's wrist and they press tightly against the tendons. The pulse of their heartbeats stutter together in a mismatched rhythm. Sam forgets to breathe.

"I am a lot prettier than Dean," Sam says, aiming for levity but really only managing breathy. Castiel's eyes narrow slightly, as though double checking the truth of that assertion. "Are you, um, ever going to actually kiss me?" Sam asks, finally. He can feel the flush, all the way from the pit of his stomach to where it flames across his cheeks.

Castiel leans in. He pauses for just a second -- Sam watches as his eyelashes flutter -- before pressing the sweetest, most gentle kiss to the corner of Sam's mouth. And Sam is just that much of a masochist that he doesn't move, no matter how intensely he may want to, as Castiel's excruciating kisses travel along his jaw.

He fumbles their hands together because as much as he can't stand making a move that will break the moment, he can't stand not touching Castiel even more. Castiel sighs against Sam's cheek. He's listing forward into Sam's chest as though he can't help himself. Sam understands entirely. He's never felt so desperate to touch someone in his life.

"Let me," Sam moans.

"Anything," Castiel says. "Do anything you want."

Sam is already reaching for Castiel's waist to untuck his shirt. He shoves his hand up over Castiel's ribs, greedy for skin. Castiel returns his enthusiasm by tipping them over and pinning their clasped hands near Sam's head. His mouth has barely left Sam's skin even though they're now spread across the mattress.

Sam feels restless, now that he's restrained both by Castiel's hands and by his body. The weight of him is comfortable, though none of their parts are aligned the way Sam wants them. Castiel does have one knee slung across Sam's hips which seems promising. Sam slips his hand down to rest in the hollow at the base of Castiel's spine and allows his fingers to trespass along the waistband of Castiel's slacks.

The result is a gratifying shiver and a pause as Castiel collects himself. Sam stretches a little, encouraging Castiel to settle in a more agreeable arrangement which he does, obligingly and unconsciously. Sam can tell the advantages of their new position are discovered when Castiel scrapes his teeth against Sam's jugular and then again when it startles out a groan.

Sam shoves back a little, pleased when Castiel follows his lead and gives him some space to maneuver and releases his hand. He shucks the shirt he's been wearing for less than an hour, grinning when Castiel mimics him.

The stare that has always bothered Sam is strangely hot when Castiel is using it to map every inch of Sam's naked chest. He hesitates -- trying to work out his plan of attack, Sam thinks -- and Sam uses that reprieve to stretch himself out and place his arms above his head where he thinks Castiel will want them.

He's not wrong. Castiel's eyes narrow and he pins Sam's wrists with one broad palm. Sam grins and though it takes a moment, Castiel rallies with a small smile.

"I have no recourse against you," Castiel says. "When it's you, I become completely defenseless."

Sam's grin becomes rueful. "I've never had any illusion about defenses against you."

Castiel doesn't reply and instead forces their mouths together and teases Sam's lips open with his tongue. He's no longer tentative but the gentle persistence remains. Castiel's other hand slides against Sam's cheek. His fingers twine in Sam's overly long hair and his thumb strokes the edges of Sam's mouth, tangling in their kiss.

Sam's hips stutter against Castiel's thigh. He's trying to hold still but Castiel pinning him down only makes him want to push back. Every time he makes a move, though, Castiel is there, implacable as ever, pressing him back into the bed. It's as frustrating as it is amazingly sexy. Sam has never been with someone who is as obviously stronger and as willing to take advantage of that strength. Even if he can't entirely stop himself from fighting it, Sam wouldn't want things any other way.

He participates as best he can within the confines that Castiel has set up. The relief of pressure against his dick is intermittent at best and likely to be accidental. For Castiel, kissing seems to be the entire point. He's happy to take his time to explore, never mind that Sam has never been so turned on in his entire life. Nor so frustrated.

"Cas," Sam murmurs as the underside of his jaw is explored with single-minded determination, "you've got to do something or I'm going to come in my pants."

Castiel takes a moment for a wet, sloppy kiss to Sam's throat. "That is an acceptable alternative," he says with all seriousness.

Sam chokes on a laugh as Castiel strategically applies his teeth to Sam's collar bones. His train of thought derails unceremoniously. There is something about the crush of Castiel's skin against his own that is infinitely distracting. A faint glaze of sweat slicks them together; Castiel's chest is smooth barring a few ambitious hairs that trickle down to his belly button.

"It's really, really not," Sam says, pressing a kiss to the crown of Castiel's head.

There is a jittery pause where Sam can see Castiel trying to decide how seriously he ought to take that. "You wish for me to stop," Castiel says finally, disappointment evident in his voice.

"I don't," Sam says, with an emphatic roll of his hips. "But we should. This is... It's awesome, Cas, but it's too fast."

Castiel sighs and chastely kisses the last place he scraped with his teeth. His grip eases and he slides over to rest his head on Sam's chest. Sam brings his arms down and squeezes Castiel against him.

"This was not my intention," Castiel says; a low rumble against Sam's ribs. "I only wished to see you and Dean had no use for my assistance."

Sam grins a little. He's still uncomfortably -- and obviously -- hard in his sweats but it's a nice sort of ache. Castiel burrowing into his side is a satisfying consolation. "You didn't come all the way out here to get laid?" Sam says, trying not to laugh.

"I did not," Castiel says with dignity. "However," he adds with a kiss to the underside of Sam's jaw, "I do not object to this outcome."

Sam can feel that lazy sensation drifting back through his limbs as he lets go of his arousal. He's a little chilly, since his shirt has fallen by the wayside, but he has Castiel draped across him, making sleepy noises and placing lazy kisses against any skin he can reach with his mouth.

Sam closes his eyes. There is still a long weekend ahead. And now, maybe, he has someone to share the surf with. An unexpected, strangely welcome someone. "Come to dinner with me, tonight," Sam murmurs into Castiel's hair. "We'll go somewhere nice."

"If you like," Castiel says easily.

"I do." It's a surprise to find how sincerely he means that. Sam may want nothing to do with hunting or angels or prophesies but Castiel no longer figures into that equation. "Very much so."


End file.
